Neither Love Nor Fate
by Krys33
Summary: “Their love story begins with a chance meeting in a bar, which doesn’t make any sense at all, really, because neither Jack nor Jordan believe in love or fate anymore. [JackJordan, Post series, Oneshot.]


**A/N: **I think I love parentheses (and this pairing) too much. Read and enjoy!  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own Studio 60.

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Their love story begins with a chance meeting in a bar, which doesn't make any sense at all, really, because neither Jack nor Jordan believe in love or fate (anymore).

--

It's been years (too many, if one were to ask) since they've seen each other, and it's a miracle she even recognizes him through the dim lighting and haze of cigarette smoke. It's a wonder he recognizes her, too, this older, more sophisticated Jordan McDeere (not Tripp, not anymore) who walks with an air of independence she had maybe been lacking a little the last time they spoke.

She takes a seat next to him at the bar, refraining from making a smartass remark about the gray in his hair, partly because she doesn't know if their old banter will return quite so easily and partly because she knows the dye she uses (L'Oreal, medium ash brown) is covering up gray hairs of her own.

Jack orders her drink before she can open her mouth (dirty martini, rocks, an olive), and the look on her face is genuine surprise at the fact that he remembers. He only smirks a little when he sees the expression, taking a sip of his scotch as he asks her how she's been.

(It's not like he doesn't already know, really, but it's just polite to inquire.)

She answers with a perfunctory _fine_ as the bartender slides her drink across the counter. After a minute or so of somewhat companionable silence, she asks him how NBS is doing (but she really means Danny, and he can tell).

He tells her what she already knows about the network's ratings and moves on to a fairly humorous anecdote concerning Matt and Harriet's latest ridiculous argument (because Danny's not doing too well at all, not since she left, and he can't bear to break that news to her). She laughs politely, even if he did stumble over the story a little, mind clouded with alcohol.

They reminisce about old times, the shouting matches in his office and the unbearably mundane board meetings and the daring decisions she made as network president (the kind that eventually made NBS _let her go_ – she still wishes they'd have said _fire her ass_, because she hates sugar coating).

Before she knows it, Jordan's on her third martini and the feeling of Jack's knee against her own is a welcome warmth, a sharp contrast to the tart olive she's rolling around on her tongue. The harsh lines and sharp angles of his face and the bright blue of his eyes seem to combine in a way that makes him far more handsome than she ever remembers him being (but she can't really tell if it's the alcohol or the lighting or a combination of the two that's making her feel this way).

"We never kept in touch." It's a statement, not a question, and Jordan's glad that the fourth martini she's nursing now didn't make her slur the words.

"I sent you a card, every Christmas."

"That doesn't count, Jack. And you know it." Because she sent him cards, too, horribly generic, just like the ones he sent her.

"Birthdays, then."

And he doesn't need to explain, because it all comes back to her now, the little bottle of perfume in the red wrapping paper that always shows up right on her birthday (never late, never early) without a note or a name.

She answers with only a smile, holding her wrist out to him so he can catch the faint smell of Chanel No. 5 wafting off of her skin.

"You have good taste." Her voice is softer now, but not quite a whisper.

He gives her a one-shouldered shrug, downing the rest of his drink. "I asked some of the interns for suggestions."

(Truthfully, though, he bought it because it reminded him of her, but that's something he'll never tell anyone.)

"I'm sorry I never got you anything."

His head cocks to the side, just a little. "I never asked."

When her glass is empty, he offers to get her a cab (like any gentleman would), and when she stands, he holds her coat open for her so she can slip her arms inside. He walks her to the door, a steadying hand on the small of her back the entire way (resting maybe a little lower than the average _just a friend_).

He opens the cab door for her, offering up a "See you, McDeere," before closing it again and turning to walk down the sidewalk.

The cab doesn't roll more than three feet before the brake lights shine red and the door flies open again, Jordan spilling out of her seat and hurrying toward him, fast as her two-inch stilettos will allow.

(And it's not a silver screen moment because she's tipsy and he'd actually been expecting her to come after him.)

He meets her halfway, hands on her hips to keep her from stumbling as their lips crash together in a somewhat drunken but altogether perfect kiss.

The cabbie honks his horn, startling them apart, and she climbs into the cab all by herself this time, with a wink and a "See you, Jack," before she shuts the door.

(And this here is a silver screen moment because he watches 'til the car is out of his sight and she looks out the back window 'til she can't see him any longer.)

--

On his birthday his assistant hands him a small box wrapped in red, and he smiles when he opens it to find a bottle of Chanel cologne.

(Ēgoïste: _for the independent, completely self-assured man_)

He slides the box into his desk drawer as he picks up the phone, because he's sure as hell not going to count on _fate_ to bring him and Jordan together again.

**--**

**End **

(yes, that's the description of that particular cologne from the Chanel website and yes, that is the description of a L'Oreal hair dye: Couleur Experte, 5.1 Truffle)


End file.
